When I Almost Saw Everest

The real, raw, deeper story

I thought I had been to a country like Nepal.

Though I have no clue how I got that ridiculous notion in my head, because I can assure you—before last month, I had never been to a country like Nepal.

I had briefly driven through some rougher parts of the Caribbean. And I’d flown to a remote mountain town in Argentina.

But the heart of a true developing country, one in which less than 25% of its people have access to safe drinking water?

This is the backdrop I want you to remember as I share the story with you about how I almost saw Everest.

I made plans in March. I had been dreaming of a trek to Everest Base Camp for over a decade, and I was finally making it happen.

I trained hard six days a week for almost eight months.

I spent thousands of dollars in flights, gear, insurance, and trip costs.

I chose “the best time of year to go,” October, when the skies and weather are clearest and flight delays are least likely to happen. And, I chose to trek with a company known for its great reputation.

So you can imagine my complete shock when I spent three full days in the rural foothills of Nepal, waiting for a flight into the mountains, only to be told that it wasn’t going to happen, that I had run out of time to make the trek safely, and that my only option was to make the full-day, bumpy bus ride back to Kathmandu, without even attempting to see my mountain.

My group of 16 hopeful trekkers was utterly devastated. Our dream was so abruptly taken from us, and for what? Three days of sitting around a glorified trekking resort and doing nothing but play cards and nibble at mediocre buffets? All while we saw dozens of other groups take helicopters up the mountain, something our company hadn’t managed to secure?

It was an absolute nightmare and comedy of errors, and despite receiving full refunds for the trekking portion, we were all out thousands of dollars and nearly three weeks of precious vacation, never even to set foot on the trail leading to our mountain.

We were heartbroken.

But the thing that really broke me?

Feeling unnerved about how we had to be on constant edge about the cleanliness of food and water—about whether staples like fruit and vegetables had been contaminated by tap water containing all kinds of debilitating bacteria. (Which frankly, led us to avoid these nutritious foods entirely.)

At one point, I thought, were us Westerners just being silly and overly cautious? What were the locals eating and drinking? Were their bodies and stomachs “adapted” (like I had heard so many times, but which made zero sense to me) to this bacteria- and parasite-infested way of living? Or—were they also getting sick?

Just the tiniest bit of research revealed that yes, they are getting sick. It’s just happening behind closed doors where us foreigners don’t see it.

This is why only 1 in 100,000 children die of water-borne and diarrhea-related illnesses each year in developed countries like the United States, while over 1,200 children die of these each day in countries like Nepal.

Turns out, this idea that “their” bodies are “stronger” and “more adapted” is non-sense and just a self-protective story we tell ourselves so we can feel better about traveling to these countries and experiencing their best parts while ignoring their worst.

And this is what makes my jaw clench, my throat catch, my chest tighten, and my face become hot with tears.

Feeling convicted by the fact that here I was, angry and frustrated about a completely unnecessary and luxurious trip that I am extremely privileged to have spent thousands of dollars on, all while standing in a country with barely any clean water or plumbing to speak of.

A country where (among the things I saw) two toddlers, siblings no older than 4, hold hands as they walk along the edge of heavily trafficked mountain road.

A country where 8-year-old boys till fields.

A country where men and women, young and very very old, carry humongous bales of grass on their backs up mountains.

A country where bricks dot metal roofs, I assume to keep them intact.

A country where people can’t escape the stench of ammonia in the pit toilets in their own homes.

A country of the friendliest of friendly people who hide your phone away, keeping it safe until you realize you’ve left it in their store, greeting you with a knowing smile when you return.

A country where cleaning ladies wash their laundry in the sinks of the resorts where they take care of us trekkers (presumably because it’s better than what’s available in their own homes).

A country where men and women, young and old, live with visibly broken and deformed arms because they don’t have access to good medical care.

A country where the vast majority of its citizens do all these things for us, the trekkers, yet most of them can’t even afford to go see their country’s own mountains.

Obviously I am allowed to be disappointed about not making it to see Everest like I have worked so hard for. And obviously, not all of life is sad and challenging in Nepal. They have many things figured out that us Westerners could learn a lot from.

And, what a blessing it is to let my heart break with the raw, gritty reality that me not seeing Everest is the smallest of small problems.

That I am so privileged, I am a mere decision and a few thousand more dollars away from attempting to see Everest again.

That the only thing separating me from any of the people I met in Nepal is pure luck of where I was born.

The real weird, mind-boggling part? I’ve been saying for months now that I feel like I’m meant to be here.

In Nepal. In the Himalayas. Seeing Everest.

So in one breath, it would be easy to let anger and confusion get the best of me as I wallow in the question of why the fuck was I brought here, on this “meant to be” journey, if I can’t even do what I set out to?

But in another breath, the answer feels so obvious.

I am still meant to be here—just not for the reasons I originally thought.

I recently finished watching the series This Is Us, which is its own intense and special kind of emotional rollercoaster, and I am reminded of an all-important line from the first episode. When the unthinkable happens, a wise old man says, “When life gives you the sourest of lemons, you turn it into something resembling lemonade.”

It’s so easy to hear this story and say, “I’m so sorry….” (that you didn’t get to see Everest, or that you had to go through all this instead).

But am I really, truly sorry for either? Not really. (As much as I do still want to see Everest.)

The lemonade in all of this?

I got to know 15 new and amazing humans whose stories and own emotional journeys I’ll never forget. (Versus had we started trekking immediately, this depth of conversation may not have happened between being tired and breathless on the trail.)

I banned together with this same group of humans to complete a different trek, to Annapurna Base Camp. It wasn’t the two-week, 80-mile, 18,000-foot adventure we had planned for, but we got to experience 60 miles and one week at lower altitudes in the Himalayas all the same—including an epic sunset and sunrise on the world’s 10th-highest mountain, Annapurna, which interestingly is also the hardest and most dangerous to summit.

I got to re-learn the lesson that life is completely out of our control—our best-laid plans and preparation be damned. In retrospect, it really is hilarious that I thought I could control a mountain.

I was reminded that so very little of life is about me. Going in, I imagined I’d come back from Nepal and write some essay about me conquering doubts and fears on a mountain. Instead, I am here, writing this.

I grappled with life giving you something that you don’t want, which at some point is inevitable for all of us. And I’m here now, able to share all of this with all of you.

And, I was changed, probably in ways that I don’t yet know.

Something all of us marveled at while in Nepal was the calmness that we felt from all of our Nepalese guides, drivers, and anyone else helping us along our journey. Nothing seemed to faze them.

During our first, 10-hour bus ride on a very remote and washed-out road, our bus got stuck in a dip in the road. We were probably 7 hours from Kathmandu, and who knows how far from a town with any resources available to get us moving. It was a moment that could easily have sent us 16 trekkers spiraling with anxiety—and it nearly did.

But our guides and drivers, bless them, were bewilderingly calm. One of them stepped off the bus, grabbed a few rocks from the roadside, and began placing them strategically around the wheels. No panic, no freak-out—he just used what was available to him, and he stayed calm while trusting that we’d all be taken care of, one way or another. And within a few moments (as he seemed so sure of), our bus wheels latched onto a rock and pushed us forward and on our way.

The entire time, our guides were soft, I thought. Surrendered to uncertainty, like the atmospheric haze we were seeing on the mountains.

It reminded me of my favorite painting that I made last year: Surrender. It was a painting that started full of joy and excitement about new possibilities, and one that I almost abandoned when life got tough. But I kept going, pushing past doubts that anything good could come from the mess.

I don’t actually know how I resurrected that painting, which I think is what makes it so captivating. I must have entered the place where I get so lost and unattached in the creative process, that I was actually able to paint with the freedom and authentic abandon that I value so much.

Lesson, repeated.

Controlling and holding on tightly won’t get you far, anyhow.

Want to do your small part to help people and places like Nepal? Consider giving the gifts of clean water or education here or here.